


Bad Weather

by Ordinarily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Bickering, Bunker, Cas being an absolute doll, Coping, Drawing, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I started a plot and didn't finish a plot, Post-Purgatory Dean Winchester, Reckless Dean Winchester, Reckless Driving, References to Depression, Tornado, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hell weather, please thanks, take it for what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinarily/pseuds/Ordinarily
Summary: Bury it down until you forget it's there. It's a motto they follow and probably the least healthy of all their coping mechanisms.Or: You and Dean bicker, but turns out you have a lot to talk about.





	Bad Weather

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is

Dean drove like he was on edge at all times, even when he wasn’t. Even when it was the middle of the night on some country dirt road surrounded by nothing but shrub. Even when they had nowhere to be and the weather was great for cruising. Still, he drove like he was late to his brother’s wedding or daughter’s birth or demon deal (which had certainly never happened, obviously). He drove like it was a matter of life or death because… most times it was.  

 But right now... it was not. 

 

“Foot’s a little heavy there, don’t ya think, O'Conner?”

He swerved to change lanes, ignoring the honks from behind him. “I tell you how to get ready in the morning? You wanna get there or not?”

“You drive like a friggin’ drunk. Oh, wait.” Dean growled something about being a nag under his breath. “Look, all I’m saying is that we’re not in a rush. You can cool it with the Nascar moves.”

He slowed by five, still going at least thirty over the limit and offered her a sarcastic smile. “How’s that sweetheart?”

“Up yours,” she snarled. 

They pulled into a space a little while later, the parking fluid and immaculate, as always. It made her want to wring his insides—just as a little payback from the lurching of hers the entire way there. The automatic doors parted as they walked in, each making their way through the drugstore. When they met at the cash, Dean eyed her basket’s contents. 

Toiletries apparently consisted of three boxes of tampons, one of condoms, a couple of shampoo, a few razors, deodorant, toothpaste, batteries, and nail polish. 

“You wanna pay this, dear, or should I?”

“I’ll let you cover this one, _honey_ ,” he retorted lowly, dumping the few items he’d picked up for him and Sam in her basket.  

“Pussy,” she whispered in time to see him glare at her over his shoulder as he made his way out. Had lady products been omitted, he would’ve told her to wait her ass in the car. 

When she pulled open the passenger’s side door, she was white-faced. He did a double-take, his perpetual irritated expression crumbling. “What? What is it?” 

“Shifters. The whole place.”

“What, they still rung you up?” He nodded at the plastic bag in her lap. 

“Apparently the top of their hit-list is reserved for you and your brother.”

“So you ganked them?”

“Oh, yeah. The cashier says, ‘that’ll be forty-six ninety-eight’ and I just start choppin' heads. The store is full, Dean. You wanna take ‘em out, we’re gonna need back up.”

Dean’s eyes searched the dashboard as he thought. “They’re not hurting anyone.” 

Through the car’s side mirror, she followed the silhouette of a man with his own bag, who looked over his receipt and weaved through the small parking lot. Above him and above the store was a backdrop of purple and a sea of grey clouds. They gathered quickly, as if to warn of the sky's oncoming temper. “Um,” she said softly. “Does that look like a tornado forming to you?” The tires screeched as he veered onto the main road and she squeaked as she braced herself, scrambling to strap on a seat belt. “Christ, Dean—”

“A monster campout _and_ bad weather. Whatever it is, it’s not good.” They’d both been around long enough to know that coincidences were never just that. They meant things and if you wanted to know what, you had to be quick. At least that’s how she justified his maniacal pedal work and suicidal steering. The whole way back was quiet, a change in pace for their dynamic. It was usually nonstop with them; bickering and jabs and quips that had them nearly swinging at each other. Sam was often caught in the middle of it, though he’d readily learned to tune them out, so when he heard the lock turn and front door swing open, unaccompanied by harsh voices or bitter laughter, he knew something was wrong. 

She was pale and wide-eyed, nervously fumbling about and Dean looked tired. Sam gestured between them as she scampered off to put things away and he idled in the doorway, toying with his keys. “Did—did I miss something? One of you finally confess your undying love for each other or something?”

Green eyes burned holes through him and Sam grinned as he was yanked to a nearby window. “See that?”

“Holy crap. Reminds you of Kansas, doesn’t it?”

“Something tells me the panic room ain’t gonna cut it this time." 

“Of course. Can never just be abnormal weather,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. These plans of destruction were starting to feel old. “You think we should head to the bunker?”

“If we can.”

They flipped to a weather channel and watched the red screen flash with dread. “Hey, Cas?”

She bumped into him as she turned to exit the tiny motel bathroom. The angel turned to steady her, apologizing for the roughly executed landing. 

“Can you get us to the bunker?” Dean asked, vaguely gesturing to the outdoors.

“Wait!” she yelled, throwing her hands in the air. “You always do this so fast, I can never pack a bag. Gimme, like, thirty seconds.”

“You already have clothes over there.”

“I’m not packing _clothes_ , asshat,” she retaliated. “I just spent fifty bucks on toiletries.”

Sam grabbed his laptop and backpack and Dean shot him a look. “What? She’s got a point.” He rolled his eyes and grabbed a duffle bag of his own, deciding, screw it. If everyone else was bringing their junk, he might as well. He wished he could bring along poor Baby out there, his heart sinking at the thought of her being unsalvageable.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Sam asked Cas as they landed in the living area of the bunker.

Their divine friend held up a finger, disappearing and returning momentarily, almost like he’d heard Dean’s thoughts. “Your vehicle is underground.” Dean nearly skipped. “As for the weather, no, I’m not aware of its cause. Although your entire motel building was filled with demons.” 

“What the hell,” she murmured, dropping her bag on the couch. “I feel like I’m going insane.”

“Why would a bunch of monsters be taking up human jobs? And doing them well enough to fly under _our_ radar…”

“What’s next,” said Dean, “Vamps in barber shops, werwolves working groceries?”

“Ghouls in hospitals,” added Cas.

“Gah, you’re makin’ my skin crawl.”

“Apologies.”

“Wait, that wasn’t speculation, was it?”

He shook his head. Sam looked like his knees had just been kicked in. 

***

Sam fingered his laptop’s mouse pad, gaze intent on the screen. He was really going to go blind hunched over that thing as often as he was. Cas popped in every now and then with reports on the hell-pocalypse; debriefing that made the lot of them feel like cowards for hiding out during the storm. Rain could still be heard from beneath the surface, tapping against the one small window in the entire place. It faced south and just barely held up against the winds and droplets, rattling its protests and threatening to cave any minute now. Dean considered flying elsewhere. Somewhere tropical, maybe, he was sure Cas wouldn’t be opposed. But he’d feel guilty leaving this place defenceless, although he wasn’t sure what good the defence team was doing stirring in their hideout. 

He took most of the space on the couch, staring blankly at the telenovela playing, only half-following it. At his feet, she curled up into the armrest, wrist moving furiously as she sketched. It was something she did in her free time, sometimes in the back of the Impala if she had the patience. Often, he found messy pen strokes making up leviathan mouths or vampire teeth or kitsune eyes. Sometimes they were heads without the rest of their necks or open wounds that reminded him of his time in the cage. Mainly they were stitched, though, often inspired by the brothers' handiwork. He shifted, trying his best to make it seem natural as he peeked at the ink. This time it was demon eyes, widened and squinted, with dark clouds conspiring above them. He watched as she stroked spirals, forming the base of a tornado and curving it onto land she hadn’t sketched yet. Her face was always blank and you could never tell she was pouring her heart out onto paper but if you cared enough to flip through, you knew. It was every nasty thing circling her head, every depressed thought, every gruesome image seared in her mind and burning hot enough to consider pulling the trigger.

He watched for a bit and eventually slid his feet against her, just to see how bad it was this time. The pen’s flow stuttered for a second but that was about all he got before she settled her unoccupied hand over the base of his ankle. She was cold, he could feel it even through his sock but that was about the least of his worries. She traced the tiny bones over the cotton, travelling the length of the bridge of his foot, and he held his breath, waiting for her to shove him off. When she didn’t, he let himself stare at the TV again, though this time he couldn’t concentrate at all. She stopped only after she’d made decent progress on a fresh page, and when he glanced at her, he found her brow knitting as the pen scratched harsher and eventually, the paper tore. She blinked, stopping altogether like she couldn’t make sense of her work, then got up brusquely, tossing the pad on the coffee table and hurling the ballpoint across the room. 

Cas cocked his head from the wingback chair adjacent to the sofa and Sam furrowed his brow in question from the table at the far end of the room. Their eyes followed her as she stalked out and Dean glanced behind him as he sat up to grab the sketchbook. It was a human heart, the rip stabbed right through an artery. He wondered how she’d gotten it so accurate without a reference before noticing small mistakes in the shapes and divides—(he’d seen enough hearts in his lifetime to recognize them). What looked like lightning bolts traveled out the sides, branching out onto the rest of the sheet, at least he guessed they would have, had she stayed to finish. 

 

Apparently the soap opera was playing back to back episodes because he was still watching when Sam listed off the food in their pantry. Dean cringed at the mention of every single item and his brother didn’t seem to have a weighing opinion either so Cas, bless his undying soul, took orders.  

Dean wandered down the hall to their bathroom—after fighting with tweetle dee and tweetle dumb about who should check on her—and knocked a few times, ensuring that she was alright with her usual burger. He found her in her room instead, dressed in a robe two sizes too big for her. She combed through wet hair and met his eyes in the mirror. 

He inched closer to face her because _holy shit._ “Yeah,” she told him, turning away from her reflection. “Sounds good.” He searched her bloodshot gaze, wondering if he should mention it all. 

“You okay?” he decided, voting his hand in. If she wanted to burn it, that was fine by him. 

“Yeah, of course,” she replied, giving him a look that indicated she had no idea why he would ask.

He scanned around for other clues, something else he could pin on her, but wound up empty handed. 

He nodded instead, pressing his lips together and conceding. Fine. He’d leave it be _for now._ He walked out, shutting the door behind her and lingered there, feigning steps. Inside, something fell, he assumed the brush, and muffled sobs traveled through the wood. He squeezed his eyes shut at the tugging in his chest and forced himself to walk away.  

Upon his return, Cas mentioned how the wraiths taking up shop in the In-N-Out two states over didn’t seem to register him. They served him like a regular client, bid him a good day and greeted the next guy in line. The monster-epidemic was spreading, apparently, although for some reason it remained dormant. Dean swiped the paper bag, figuring that if it was poisoned, he was too hungry to care. 

She wandered in, dressed in boyshorts and a tank top. The boys’ chewing slowed as they watched her fish for fries and one of the milkshakes, oblivious to the stares her choice in clothes prompted. She smiled as she looked up, carrying her cheeseburger over to the next table. “You guys ever try dipping your fries in a milkshake? Don’t do it with strawberry ‘cause that’s kind of gross, but, like, vanilla and chocolate are bomb.” She popped the lid off her drink, as if to demonstrate her point, and dunked a fry. 

“Uh, yeah,” Sam started, trying to avoid an awkward pause. “We used to when we were kids.” 

She grinned and turned to offer the fry to Cas. “Try it.”

Cas gulped, gaze flickering to the Winchesters in silent question, unsure if this was one of those tricks where women assured you they were fine when they were indeed not fine. He’d had to walk on eggshells for a bit with that one. As she waited for him to take her offering, he could nearly see through her now—the downslope her mental health had taken—and tried to determine just how she made her smile look so genuine. The angel finally reached out and had to admit, he was pleasantly surprised with the taste. 

“Ah,” she yielded, noting his blank expression. “It’s not for everyone I guess.”

“No, no,” he countered. “It’s… delicious.”

“Glad you feel that way.” She laughed as he got up to sit closer to her, stealing her fries and reaching for the shake, any trace of wariness he’d had moments ago completely wiped. 

Dean squinted, hunching protectively over his own meal.

Later, he found her by the window, flinching every so often at the lightning. She didn’t look up as he squeezed in the loveseat beside her. 

“This your idea of poking the bear?”

“That’s cute, you think you’re threatening.” 

She shoved her index in his rib and turned away, shaking her head. “Nimrod.”

“Loser.” He heard her laugh through her nose. “Why’re you holed up in the corner?”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Dean’s brow creased, like he wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was supposed to find pretty about hell weather. Come to think of it, this reminded him of purgatory a little more. “Sure.” 

“That’s the sky creating literal electricity. Say what you want about Earth but I think that’s incredible.”

He gestured in agreement, though at the moment he was trying to figure out how to best put that he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about meteorological conditions, he just wanted to know what was going on with her. But she sounded so… enthralled, he didn’t have the heart to change the subject. Much less on to something he knew she’d shy away from. She folded her legs under her, perching over the edge like some kind of cat and facing away but still managing to stay _there,_ in the moment with him _._ He felt it in the way she didn’t distance herself and in the warmth they stole from one another, auras mingling, yet not clashing. For once, he thought, for once the quarrelling had wilted.

Well… it was nice while it lasted. 

“So,” he began, “what’s up with this?” He pulled out her sketch pad from behind him and held it up for her to see. She reached for it but he pulled back, earning him a mild glare of annoyance. It was the heart she’d drawn with the small rip in the vein. “What does this one mean?”

“You’ve been snooping?”

“Call it admiring your work. I get all the other ones but—”

“What, so this is a common thing for you? Going through other people’s shit?”

_You have talent,_ he wanted to say. _I couldn’t help it._

She looked offended, palpable words hanging in the air: I didn’t let you in like that. 

And she’d be right. He wasn’t allowed to dig through her psyche; he knew exactly how much of her went into those drawings. They were every little dark thought sprawled out and laid bare and he’d pried through every layer. He flashed hot. He’d feel pretty violated too if someone weeded their way through _his_ wasteland of feelings. “Throw me a bone, here.”

“Why should I? Does the concept of privacy mean anything to you?”

His lips quivered. How did he explain it? How did he explain that he was a survivalist and that safety triumphed over all—whether it was physically or psychologically. He hated playing caretaker, yet here he was. “You’re not okay.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. Look, I can deal with my own crap. I’m a big girl.” 

“I know. And I also know you won’t say anything if you can’t.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” 

His expression went sour as she got up and he knew he made it worse, he’d known he would, but it didn’t sting any less.

***

She was a tired drunk. She was loopy and giggly and sleepy and out of all the moods she had, this was by the far the cutest. And that was just an objective fact, Dean insisted, not his opinion, obviously. She gulped back another glass, swinging her legs back and forth over the arm of the couch. Cas sat next to her with his hands clasped in his lap, looking over every so often like he’d volunteered to babysit.  

For the first time in awhile, Dean didn’t drink. It’d take a hell of a lot of alcohol to get him anywhere near a similar state and his brain had gone into conservative survival mode so he stashed a single bottle for when things got bad again. For now, though, he could handle his thoughts. They mainly consisted of her anyway and currently, she seemed more than okay so he let himself be about the same. 

When he looked back, her head had fallen into Cas’s lap and he looked awkward as he tried to play with her hair. Eventually, he combed through her locks with a sense of ease and Dean observed his friends as the familiar program jingle caught their attention. Cas was an expert at poker faces but now, as he listened to the weather report’s announcement of the storm slowly picking up steam, the space between his eyebrows creased. She watched with a sense of detachment, like the information was being relayed too fast for her to process it.

Rain poured heavy against their tiny window, filling the background with pitter-patter. He shook his leg to the rhythm, weighing his next actions. It was going to be a very long however many days they had to stay in here if they kept at each other’s throats. She yawned and stretched over the seraph’s lap, face sweet and young, despite the years of baggage he knew she carried. 

Before he realized it was happening, she bid Cas a goodnight and ruffled Sam’s hair on her way to her bedroom. Dean waited a few beats. Then some more, until the program cut to commercial and he stood to follow. He found Cas in his way, and again after he'd tried to dodge him.

“She said she was going to sleep. You shouldn’t disturb her.” 

“I won’t,” he promised. “I’m going to apologize.”  

Sam snorted in the distance. Castiel stood tall, cocking his head like he didn’t believe him for a millisecond. “She's intoxicated. It’s not the time.” 

He was right but Dean couldn’t bring himself to acquiesce. “You know she’s not doing well.” Cas faltered, just barely, but Dean had been friends with him long enough to recognize it. “You gotta let me to talk to her.”

When he moved this time, the angel stayed behind him and Dean nodded at him in gratitude.

There was no answer at her door when he knocked, so he tried the handle, twisting it gently so as not to startle her. “Hey,” he said, slipping past the threshold. He found her in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. 

“The room is spinning,” she said quietly. 

It was going to be difficult having this conversation while she was smashed but a part of him figured she’d open up a little easier. He always did. “Look, I won’t dig through your stuff anymore. I’m sorry I did in the first place. I just… worry about you, you know?”

“Why? Am I that much of a damsel in distress?” 

“No,” Dean smirked. “You’re not and I know that. But I also know what it’s like to burry things so deep you think they’re not there anymore. But they are and they’ll come back to bite you in the ass if you don’t get rid of ‘em.”

It was awhile before she answered, and he almost turned to leave. “Lightning flashes at random. It was supposed to be a heart beating at random. Whenever it wants to, I guess.” 

He nodded, treading over to sit at the edge of her bed. “Yours?”

“And yours, I think.”

He met her eye, caught off guard. It was a good way to describe it, that much was true. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I’m okay, Dean,” she slurred. “You don’t gotta worry 'bout me.”

She wrapped the blankets closer around her shoulders and curled inwards a little. He shook his head, wanting to bite back words but not being quick enough. “You’re reckless in fights, you don’t clean or patch wounds, you work out too hard, you go without food and water for days, sleep is even worse. It’s like you don’t care about yourself at all.”

“Are you sure this isn’t about you?”

Her voice was soft and monotonous but his blood spiked nonetheless. He knew he had bad habits but never once did he look like he enjoyed the pain. “I don’t work out for hours on end after fights or watch cuts bleed out. If you didn’t get bruised so often I wouldn’t put it past you to do it yourself.” 

“Okay, okay, enough,” she squeaked and he hoped he’d finally broken a wall. Tears pricked her eyes and she shuffled out of bed to sit next to him. “I think… I think I started to block out a lot. Being a hunter… you know what it’s like. And honestly, I don’t think I was cut out to be one. I was squeamish with blood my whole life, I cried when people raised their voices at me… It… It takes a lot to change that kind of person.” He nodded, following her words. “I had to kill her off. After that, I didn’t know what was left. You end up a shadow of a person with foggy memories and a steaming pile of baggage. How else are you supposed to feel things? They either rush in all at once in the shower or leave for months on end… How are you supposed to cope with that?” 

He was silent for a bit. “You brush your teeth a little harder and get too close to cars on the freeway.” He gave her a tight lipped smile and nodded understandingly. 

“And you don’t bother people with your crap when you know they’re going through their own.”

“Sorry I pushed.”

“S’okay. S’it alright if I push you for a bit?”

Dean pulled out the bottle he’d stashed from behind his back, deciding now was as good an emergency as any. “Only if I don’t remember it tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

So they drank and talked for hours about the faults in their upbringing and the tumbleweeds in their subconscious. And they discovered they had more in common than their bickering had them believe. She giggled at one particularly uninteresting childhood story of Sam and together they doubled over, laughing for what felt like millennia. His abs hurt when they finally calmed down, only to start up another round until tears leaked from his eyes and his voice sounded hoarse. 

Tomorrow he’d wake up in her bed, confused and disoriented and hungover as shit, but lighter. He’d remember every single story and every downplayed confession and they’d still have no idea just what the _fuck_ was going on out there, outside the bunker’s walls, but at least they’d have their sarcastic quips and mutual understandings. Life would be hard and terrible and nasty to them but he’d remember her kind words in that soft rasp, while she stared at him with eyes made of goo and a heart made of gold. Echoed variants of “you matter in this world, Dean Winchester,” and dammit if he didn’t whisper it back to her, along with all the other little endearments he’d stowed for a rainy day.


End file.
